


Transfiguration

by EdgeLaur



Category: Doom (Video Games)
Genre: Alternative Energy, Canon-Typical Violence, Demons Made Them Do It, Doom Eternal Spoilers, Gen, God Complex, M/M, Post-Game(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgeLaur/pseuds/EdgeLaur
Summary: It's over. The Icon of Sin has fallen, Earth is saved and The Time of the Doom Slayer, is now.So why doesn't it feel... like a victory?
Relationships: Doom Slayer | Doomguy/Samuel Hayden
Comments: 30
Kudos: 180





	1. Awake

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. Okay. Doom Eternal got in some sorta way. Guess I write DOOM fanfic now. 
> 
> This is post doom eternal, but it explores all sorts of time periods, places, and things. I just wanna write a lot for Hayden and Slayer. And eventually VEGA Is that such a bad thing? 
> 
> Anyway spoiler alert the Doom universe just got a whole lot bigger post Eternal.
> 
> I'll.... probably update the summary later.

_ "There is a common saying among the peoples of humanity; 'history is written by the victors.' It is one of their species's constants, a phrase found across the divides. Thus, it can be gleaned that regardless of realms, of region, that history is full of lies. Only those who lost their respective battles yet still managed to survive those considered to be the holders of the more accurate accounts of events. But how many survivors never tell the truth? How many live in fear, unable to share the knowledge they have born witness to? _

_ "I refute being a fearful survivor. Though the 'victors' may say otherwise, I was advised to disappear by the Father himself, to run from my own species in order to save it. The words of prophecy have been set into motion; there are coming events even he cannot stop. I have seen the future, infallible now. The battle is lost, but not the war. _

_ I am Samur. I am the holder of the witnessed truth. I will profess it to you as long as I am alive, and as long as I am able.  _

_ Father, if you are listening, please have mercy on my consciousness." _

_ \-- Book of the Maykr Samur, pt 1 _

\------

When he wakes up, it is not in the bed he fell asleep in. He stares up at the bright white of a too-clean ceiling, hears the steady beep of machinery and --  _ voices, _ there were voices nearby. Too many for him to still be in the lonely fortress he calls home, a fact that is enough to clear any fog clouding his mind. In one swift movement he's sitting up, his body aching and protesting this sudden change in verticality but he ignores the pain entirely, legs swinging over the side of the bed in an effort to move.

One of the earlier voices shouts, clearer and sharper now-- definitely real and not like the fabrications he's used to. He ignores them for now nonetheless; more urgent is the machinery yelling at him from the bedside. He frowns, pulling off cords and sensors, highly disapproving of the medical gown he's found himself in. _ Damnit, where the fuck is my suit, _ he thinks, even as a doctor with black hair and green eyes behind jeweled glasses rushes over to put a hand on his chest and try and push him back down to a prone position.

"Ah, sorry, mister Slayer, sir," the doctor fumbles, trying and failing to even budge the man, the wall of muscle staying stubbornly in place. The aforementioned  _ Slayer _ watches her take a step back, purse her lips, then push against him, a little more insistently. "I  _ really _ need you to lay back down. You're already starting to bleed through your bandages." 

He blinks and looks down through the smock; most if not all of his upper body was bandaged and wrapped. A particular wrapping on his left arm was indeed bleeding, the pain barely registering even as the splotch of red grows, spreading fast through the fabric. He lets out a small noncommittal noise (causing the doctor to jerk back suddenly in surprise) as he starts to unwrap the bandages himself. A group of nurses and medical staff immediately crowd into the room, urging the Slayer to please stop, to let them handle such work. 

Sure enough, as the medical staff peel away the sticky fabric, a nasty gash is revealed, running from the top of his bicep to the underside of his arm all the way to the armpit. It had been sutured shut but as the Slayer had stood up it had easily popped open and was now bleeding freely. He looks to the rolls of soaked bandages, looks to his seeping arm, and appears...  _ apologetic, _ of all things. The doctor sighs, gives the man known only as the Doom Slayer a quick look over, then fetches new bandages and sutures.

"You're probably wondering why you're here, and have a lot of questions." She looks over to him, expecting some sort of response-- but when he says nothing or doesn't refute her words, she clears her throat, pushing a lock of hair behind an ear. "Or perhaps not. Either way, we received a distress signal, and found your ship. You were in a rough state, possibly connected to the recent fight with the Icon of... Sin…" 

She trails off as she sees the Slayer's face harden like stone. She coughs lightly a second time, the color rising to her cheeks. "Apologies. The original transmission was sent by Dr. Hayden himself, so ARC forces immediately responded -- but we did not expect to find  _ you _ in an alien ship bleeding out on the floor, nor did we expect to see it powered by the Crucible, or to hear Hayden communicating from--" The doctor continued on, but the Slayer was far past the point of listening. Instead, his brow furrows, trying to recall what had happened post attack.

The fight itself had been a blur. The demons had fallen before his wrath and Dr. Samuel Hayden had been in his ear, egging him on until the end, when finally the Icon was there, the only obstacle still standing. It was only so long before the huge titan of Hell itself was falling to his might. He had stood tall, victorious, fueled by rage and adrenaline. And then Hayden had portaled him back... but from there, his memory begins to blur. How  _ had _ he been injured, exactly? Surely he had at  _ least _ made it back to his room before-- 

"Slayer? Sir?" 

His eyes flick to the doctor and again his gaze is enough to make her flinch. His fist clenches before relaxing again. He sighs. He closes his eyes, steadying himself, before tilting his head at her in question.

Her throat clears. "You zoned out, my apologies. I wanted to let you know that your stitches are fixed and you're rebandaged. We recommend a few days bed rest -- you may not feel the pain and you will not  _ die _ from the wounds but--" her eyebrows go up, shaking her head in mild disbelief,  _ "--regardless _ of your perceived immortality... you are human and you need rest. Now. Do you have any questions?"

The Slayer scowls at her, and the longer she waits for an answer the deeper the scowl grows. Eventually he rolls his eyes, then gestures to his body. She seems to get the hint.

"Oh, your suit?" He nods. "It is in the other room, currently being cleaned. We can bring it in here if you'd like?" The Slayer nods, then crosses his arms --carefully, so the doctor didn't have to re-stitch his arm a third time. "I can also assure you that your ship is secure; Hayden made sure of that, and he is also currently working with ARC scientists to repair the parts of his body that were broken." 

As the woman talked, her face grew more flushed, and she continued to avert her eyes. It was at this point that the Slayer realized her voice was  _ familiar.  _ He scrutinizes her, unblinking, head tilted, arms still crossed, before he finally clears his throat, prompting her to stop any rambling she was currently involved in. She squeaks and her cheeks go a bright red, but it is enough to stop her momentarily. 

"Oh! Do you need water? Can you speak?" 

_ Not to you, lady, _ is what he would've said, but instead he simply thinks it to himself while managing to shake his head in response to both. He sighs, sitting back. When even was the last time he was  _ in  _ a hospital? It was more than a lifetime ago, on a different Earth, in a different realm, with different doctors with similar agendas looking him over, wondering his secrets when he argued that he had none to give. 

Now he had too many secrets and a vow of silence keeping him from spilling any of them. Not that he'd want to, anyway. And definitely not to this doctor in over her head. 

"Of course, of course. Well, ah, if you need anything, my name is Dr. Elena Richardson. Feel free to call if anything,  _ anything at all,  _ is needed." She pats his arm awkwardly and it clicks in his memory; the audio logs. Good Lord, it was  _ her.  _ He gives her a brief nod and smile before looking away and she backs off, blessedly leaving him alone. 

He sits there. 

Then, less than a minute later, Slayer decides he's been sitting long enough. 

Lost in thought, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, taking in the surroundings more fully. His room was isolated, a few monitors tracking not only his vitals, but a few other things, such as blood type, foreign bodies, a chart detailing his wounds. The room smells _too_ clean, like when someone needs to disinfect every inch of every surface, but at least it wasn't tainted with the smell of blood and corruption. At least, not yet. 

Or perhaps, not anymore. 

Perhaps there was a reason for the burning scent of bleach in his nose, after all. 

His fingers tap against the mattress, keeping time with an unheard beat, but then the tempo quickens to impatience. This was not going to be a place he wanted to stay, and certainly not for a few more days, let alone a few more hours. He looks around, glances at the ceiling and windows, checks his condition, and plans. 

\------

In a different room, in a different part of the complex, in a very different condition...the body of Dr. Samuel Hayden awakens. 

Well. Perhaps  _ awaken _ is not the right word. Waking up implies the lack of a consciousness, whereas Hayden has always been quite aware of his surroundings. For the past seven years or so he's been vaguely aware of scientists watching his body, was even roughly aware of the Doom Slayer as he pulled the remnants of his body away from ARC tech, tossing him unceremoniously through a portal onto the fortress ship the Slayer called home. Things became much clearer and sharper after connecting with the ship and drawing power from it; however, there was a difference between living within the confines of a ship's mainframe for the better part of a month, and being within a body that now fully functioned, with joints that bent when he willed them to. Having a robot chassis did make life complicated sometimes… but being able to return to functional legs years after they'd been ripped off, was definitely a bonus. 

With the return of his fully-functioning cyborg body, the sleek black-and-white frame towering 3 feet over the next tallest person, he did feel  _ conscious _ again for the first time in years-- so if that counted towards "awake", then the word  _ was _ fitting for his current mental state after all.

"Thank you, Simon," Hayden says, refitting his right arm with his left, his blue LED blinking bright inside his skull. The bald doctor, overseeing the reattachment of the arm, just nods, fixing his glasses. "I think for now, that'll be all. Keep studying the ship while you can; if it can help rebuild me, it can help rebuild others." 

His voice was deep, warbled, slightly digital; like it was still getting used to speaking from the chassis, and not from the ship's internal comm system. Nevertheless the scientist didn't seem to mind. He just responds with  _ "of course, sir,"  _ and heads off in the direction of the door, passing many other scientists deep in their work as he does so. Hayden rubs a wrist and, --as a few ARC scientists flit around him, removing cables and wires full of man-made Argent-- he takes his first steps with his new pair of legs. 

"We have much to do," Hayden states, with an air of authority and urgency. "With the Icon of Sin dead, we need to move towards eradicating any remaining demonic forces before those in space can return to Earth." He turns to the nearest scientist, a woman with bushy red hair and freckles. "How is our guest holding up?" 

"Richardson has reported that he is awake and responsive, but we do not know how long he will tolerate being subject to more tests. He's already popped sutures simply by trying to get up." 

Hayden tilts his head. "How long ago was this report?"

"An hour ago now." She checks her notes and then looks up at the towering cyborg. "Why?"

As if on cue, an alarm goes off. Hayden looks over, checking a nearby monitor: as suspected, it's from Medical Bay H. The redhead looks incredibly concerned, her eyes going wide. 

"O-oh," she says, as a hulking form of muscle and sinew, dressed only in a medical gown, struts past a security camera. The subject looks around then walks up to a nearby doctor, tapping them on the shoulder before "borrowing" their key card lanyard. He uses it on a nearby door, tossing the lanyard back to doctor before entering the room and surveying the object of his desire: a powerful space-faring suit of alien make and design.

Hayden sighs.  _ Of course. _ He turns away and walks towards the door. 

"Sir?" Says the scientist manning the security camera. "Should we…  _ can _ we… stop him?" There was a futility to his tone; everyone here had a right to be concerned. Even if the humans in ARC weren't corrupt or demonic, the collateral damage the Doom Slayer could cause was well-documented. The hole Mars now sported was evidence enough of what he was capable of.

"Invite him to see me in Complex Wing B, room 235. Don't try and stop him; I can guarantee you won't be able to." There's a dark chuckle there, a dry amusement, but Hayden shakes his head anyway. He continues his trajectory, leaving the room where had been reassembled, opening up a comm line with the Slayer directly. 

"Long time no see, so to speak. How about we meet, face to face, one more time? There's much we need to discuss."


	2. Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History repeats itself.

Hayden paces Room 235, his long legs taking him the distance of the extended, decorative table in the center of the room in only half a dozen steps. He looks down at the ingrained wood; in stark contrast to the clean, geometric blue and white of the building, the table was actually two halves of a dark, rust-colored trunk, with the gap between the halves connected and filled with a golden epoxy. His optics traced the intricate designs; every flaw in the wood, every knot, every bore had been filled with the striking gold, making the near-black finish look as if it was bleeding rivers of molten fire. Every imperfection, perfected and made all the more beautiful for it. 

Hayden runs two of his right arm's four spidery, cybernetic fingers along the table, testing their sensitivity. He detects the smooth finish, the work of the expert who designed the furniture-- but also, there is the imperceptible sensation of the tree's rings, the story of its life laid bare under the sealant. He brings those same fingers back up to his chin, resting them there in a thoughtful manner-- a painfully  _ human _ thing to do, Hayden decides, and his hand drops unceremoniously to his side. 

It's five minutes past the hour (and 47 minutes after his original message was sent) when the sealed and reinforced glass doors to the meeting room finally slide open with a hiss. Hayden's attention turns from the table instead to a person he hasn't seen face to face in over a decade: the Hell Walker, the Unchained Predator, the Doom Slayer. A reputation that preceded someone who was, in reality, just a single man, cursed millennia ago to face Hell alone, blessed by angels to make sure his rage was honed into the deadliest spear. The imperfect… perfected.

Today, however, he just looks tired and maybe a touch annoyed that Hayden called him here. 

"Ah, Slayer," Hayden starts, his voice cool and unbothered. "Thank you for making it on short notice. I had figured you'd get tired of that hospital bed soon enough; did the doctors treat you well, at least?" 

Slayer says nothing, as expected. He appears to have only brought half of the Praetor Suit with him, perhaps due to the tender bandages covering his body. His arms and torso and head are exposed, but his Praetor boots and belt remain. At the mention of doctors, Slayer's lip curls and he looks away. He decides against moving from the doorway, instead allowing the huge table to act like a chasm between the him and Hayden.

"I'll take the bandages as a good sign, then," Hayden continues, ignoring the strained atmosphere. "Nobody goes up against the Icon of Sin without retaining a few injuries along the way. Not even the _ Destroyer  _ himself." 

Slayer's face distorts in disgust, as well as another, hard-to-place emotion (is it confusion?). The cyborg tilts his head a half a degree, studying the man as analytically as possible. Hayden's HUD calls up Slayer's vitals; aside from the re-stitched and bandaged lacerations, he was perfectly healthy. Nothing to worry about, per usual. When Slayer shifts, Hayden refocuses on his face, anticipating a response-- instead the man just leans against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes bored. Hayden sighs; of course Slayer's being stubborn as always, so he takes the initiative, walking around the conference table in the middle of the room, tapping a button at the corner closest to Slayer. It brings up a hologram of what appears to be Earth, with demon hotspots zones marked, though they all look dramatically reduced in size. 

"I am glad you're up and about, though. You may not care, but there's much to be done that you could still help with. This Earth has barely begun to heal itself but luckily it is, just like humanity,  _ extremely _ resilient." 

_This Earth._ Hayden keeps an eye on him, but Slayer doesn't even flinch at the clear distinction. He breathes a sigh of relief that _neither_ of them feel like beating around that particular bush today. 

A few more button presses bring up the Moon, and, more distressing, a shattered image of Mars. 

"Luna and Mars are both of another issue. With the Icon gone, most forces are being called back to Hell on the Earth's surface meaning humanity can recolonize. Anyone directly connected to the Deags or UAC's Tier 3 recruitment are being located and incarcerated. But Luna remains dust in space, and personnel on Phobos are still scrambling with the remaining demonic forces and the new gigantic _scar_ quite visible on Mars' surface. Luckily for _you--"_ Hayden tilts his head in mild irritation towards the Slayer for emphasis "--your _heroic actions_ means you won't be charged nor will you be pursued for the permanent damage done to the red planet." Hayden says that last part with dripping annoyance, and the Slayer has enough gall to grin in response, as if to say _"who would be stupid enough to try and pursue me, anyway?"_

"Don't give me that look,  _ Doom Slayer,"  _ Hayden chides, but the sly smirk doesn't falter. "Mars will never be the same. Perhaps it is for the better… Argent energy is, for the most part, gone. It  _ can _ still be manufactured here in a man-made capacity, but it will soon require the Crucible to make the process continuous; however, it is still powering the Fortress of Doom. It  _ is  _ possible humanity could regain access to Argent by reforging your blade on Argent D'Nur. I'm sure the Fortress can access that world, when you are well enough to we can--"

The Doom Slayer clears his throat. 

The sound cuts Hayden off completely. He looks over, hearing that ragged noise without really registering what it meant, not really, not until Slayer rumbles out another sound before--

"Samur.  _ Shut up."  _

The silence hangs as Hayden appears to obediently listen to Slayer's command. He stands up straighter, rocking back on a mechanical heel, but Slayer's gaze doesn't waver. Hayden breaks the contact first, a weakness he is sure Slayer will use to his advantage. But what else could he do but take a moment? _ That _ was a name he had not heard spoken in millennia. It was a title lost to time, a title Hayden had nearly forgotten, and almost wished he hadn't remembered in the first place.

It left him suitably silenced.

"Ah, of course." He starts, recomposing himself. "I should have expected you to realize, given enough time and interaction, who I was, or used to be." It wasn't a true facade-- this name, this body, the escape to this planet --but he wasn't fit to discuss it, not yet. Not when Slayer had already figured the truth of the matter, and he wasn't clear of all the details himself. That didn't stop images flashing by-- of racing stars, of violent dismemberment, of feeling his atoms pull apart and back together again and again-- 

"Information on Urdak," he continues, his even tone belying his passing internal turmoil, "is limited on this planet, if not completely non-existent outside of unreliable religious text. For us to finish our mission you needed to know everything I knew, and being directly connected to Maykr technology only enhanced what I already knew, gave greater clarity." The robot shifted on his legs, acutely remembering how he had been without those specific limbs not too long ago. 

Slayer, however, shakes his head, grunting in annoyance. Even being most of the way out of his armor, even when more than three feet of height separated Hayden from Slayer, that did not stop the man's physique from radiating power and intimidation.

"Before," the Marine manages, his voice still a ruined mess.  _ Perhaps something happened to it in Hell, _ Hayden hypothesizes.  _ There's no way it was from back then, with the Sentinels. They enjoyed your war cry far too much to ever...  _ Hayden pushes those intrusive thoughts from his mind as, somehow, Slayer continues. "Back when I woke up." His eyes dart to Hayden, look him over, and his expression goes steely.

"Liked you  _ better, _ before." 

Something in Slayer's tone hits Hayden personally.  _ Before. _ Back when he was still Samur Maykr, back when maykr and demon called him Seraphim, back when Argent D'Nur wasn't destroyed for the sake of energy and power. It was filled with a strange nostalgia, one that pulls at a string in Hayden that was long-since cut and left to fray. Still, he manages a leveled response.

"I only wanted to help them, you know," Samur -- no, he was  _ Samuel _ now, and never before had he misstepped on his  _ own name, _ not until Slayer had said it himself, in that accusing tone -- retorts, holding ground. Hayden's voice is still rough and mechanical, but the defensive edge laces every word. "I found an Earth, I saw what they discovered, and I knew it was only a matter of time before it led to demons as well as to you--" 

Slayer heavily frowns and he coughs out a rough growl before looking away. He's quick to head back out the door he came in from, gaining physical distance from Hayden as his Praetor boots thudded heavily against the surgical tile. 

A feeling of panic strong enough to spike a system warning message overcomes Hayden's HUD and his cyborg body begins to follow Slayer of it's own accord. 

"This world-- you are not a  _ constant, _ Slayer," He argues. "They were doomed to be swallowed whole, just like your Deimos, just like parts of Argent D'Nur, just like countless nameless realms and worlds. I had to stay, emulate you while I searched, while I  _ tried to do better than--" _

Slayer stomps away, faster now, but Hayden's longer, tireless legs are moving, closing the gap quickly as Hayden makes the cardinal mistake of reaching out to touch an exposed shoulder. 

Slayer snarls, grabbing Hayden's hand and twisting it. His eyes are flashing as the hand the Slayer crushes spurts electricity, the long metallic fingers crunched in his palm. The same sensors trained to register the subtle changes in wood grain now scream in a form of pain, lighting up his visual array. The fire in Slayer's eyes burn with anger and Hayden realizes too late his egregious miscalculation.

"Using that energy…  _ I would have never…" _ Slayer can barely get the sentence out before his vocal cords are working against him, causing a cough so strong he has to look away. The menace soon returns, however; the hand is mangled again, shoved away from the accosted shoulder so hard it nearly falls off Hayden's arm. The cyborg just stares, watchful and expressionless.

"You are  _ not _ better, not anymore," Slayer rasps, only getting the spitting rebuke out on a whispered exhale. Then he's turning away, his throat roughly clearing, before resuming his march. The doctors and technicians he passes all turn to stop and look at him but he pays them no mind as he stomps off towards his room. Many of them soon rush to Hayden, still standing in the hallway outside Room 235.

Why had he even called Slayer there in the first place? Surely it wasn't it have  _ this _ sort of outcome take place. Hayden's systems scream at him, flashing red in his peripheral. His arm was losing functions; Slayer must have cut a fuel line to the lower limb. He's dimly aware of a technician nearby, already running diagnostics, already saying something along the lines of  _ "are you ok sir, let us just check this over, we'll have a replacement ready for you in--" _

He waves off the ARC employee and turns to walk away. 

_ Better. _ What did the Slayer mean, saying he  _ wasn't _ 'better'? His actions have saved this Earth, saved humanity, and in time, would free his own people of corruption and let them be born anew. Wasn't all of that the outcome Slayer wanted, too? Doesn't this make all of those sacrifices worth it? Hayden wasn't looking for praise, no, but was a little acknowledgement for what they'd both accomplished too much to ask for?

He should've known the Slayer's trust wasn't so easily won over.

\------

**[Taras Nabad, ??? Years ago]**

He is standing on the outer wall of Teras Nabad (one of the greatest Sentinel cities, he's come to learn), watching on as the inner wall begins to burn. A huge, hulking form relentlessly attacks the city, lit in the darkness of early morning by the fires of its own destruction. It tosses it's giant, horned head, the Hell essence falling from its eyes like molten tears, and the roar it emits pierces the very heavens. 

The man known to the Argent people only as Slayer clenches his fists at the sight before him. His hands are begging for a demonic throat to close around, if only to calm the torrential wave of memory-induced anger threatening to drown him. Of all the fights, of everything that he has borne witness to, living a hundred lives in a personal purgatory… 

That Titan. He could  _ not  _ defeat it. For the first time, his rage alone was not enough.

He had seen Titans in Hell before, of course, but it was always in passing, and always from a distance. He dreamt (if one could call the feverish vision he had,  _ dreams)  _ of ripping them asunder with his own fists, of finding creative ways to murder them, just like the rest. Perhaps he would end up being swallowed, fighting his way out, bursting with his shotgun with huge guts flying asunder. Or perhaps saw off their horns, drive in the spikes ruining their body, crashing them down into the Hell energy they themselves created. No matter the fashion, there was  _ always  _ a way. He reveled in the challenge of actually finding it.. 

But now, the challenge is before him and it is a difficult pill to swallow; Slayer, the unstoppable force, could not budge this gigantic immovable object. 

He turned from the sight, finding it hard to witness  _ another  _ city he called home fall to demons. As the Night Sentinels he fought with found a moment of sleep, he remained restless, constantly on alert, the wheels turning too loudly in his head to bring him peace. For the first time in so many realms and so many worlds, he felt…  _ despair. _ It left his mouth tasting like cinders and ash.

"You sure do take the title _Night_ _Sentinel_ to heart," drones a deep, ethereal voice, and Slayer turns to his right. He is startled but unsurprised to see the hooded figure of the Seraphim watching him from the shadow of the bridge tower. Slayer manages to roll his eyes and beckons the Maykr over; the Seraphim only hesitates a moment before finally relenting. He is robed in red, a robe he donned specifically for moments like this, the hood obscuring his face and his intentions. As he nears Slayer, he hesitates again, pulling the hood back only when the coast is deemed clear. The Seraphim's face was slightly different from the others of his kind, more individual than the angels and their militaristic uniformity. No, his metallic Maykr mask gleams softly even in the dark, four eyes sharp and glowing, the crescent of energy upon his forehead reminiscent of the orb held within the Mother Khan herself. Though he was close to the same height of Slayer, he floated a few feet above the ground and his body whirred softly as mechanical armor worked in perfect tandem with the tentacled flesh hiding just underneath. 

Slayer smiles. It is brief and does not reach his eyes. "And you really need to shut up, Samur." 

The name prompts a grin from the Maykr, as if the line is a long-standing joke between them. Samur watches Slayer, carefully, unblinking, then turns to observe the monster befalling the city. Such a huge set piece, it almost felt unreal. Here was the end the world, and at the rate the titan was moving, it would claim it by morning. 

There is a silence that hangs between man and angel for a while before Samur turns to Slayer and says plainly, "I do not have much time. You know this." 

Slayer nods, then swallows. "I cannot kill the beast," he confesses, and it sounds so much worse aloud than in his head. "All my tricks, my weapons… I can't rip this beast asunder. It sees my rage, my fury...and ignores it."

Samur is quiet, listening to Slayer, with an unmoved expression, but even his alien calculation appears to register the Slayer's bittersweet emotion. There is something else there, and it maykr turn and watch Slayer carefully. 

"You can't  _ possibly _ be considering defeat?" Samur asks, near incredulous. 

"No, not like that. I can't run... I will…  _ I will _ die fighting it. There is nothing else for it." He looks down, his muscular frame deflated. "This was an inevitability, Samur. I knew in my heart this would happen. I will go down fighting these monsters and my dying breath will be the final assault. It will be an end I will be proud of. I just…" his eyes soften. 

"You just what?" asks that graveled whale song, followed by that imperceptible head tilt. 

"I just need to be better," he mutters softly. "But I'm only a man. I'm mortal. And no single mortal can bring down something like that." 

Samur remains silent and Slayer grows impatient as the helpless seconds tick by. He paces the wall, watching as the beast screams out in tormented defiance. 

"I do have a plan of attack," Slayers gets out in a rush as his body pumps him with frenetic adrenaline. "But the sentinels all know it's just a suicide run at this point. We've all agreed and accepted it. We will flank in the morning, and hope to divert it's attention while the western parts of the city evacuate. Then--" 

"Slayer."

"--we will do out best to swarm it, and herd it. It can ignore me, but it cannot ignore a coordinated strike. Pushing it towards the center of the City will crowd it, and allow people to escape to--"

_ "Slayer!"  _

The Slayer stops. He looks back at this creature, this otherworldly angel, and frowns in confusion, then worry. The maykr's face is expressionless as ever but there is a glaze to his wide eyes; wherever Samur is looking, it is nowhere in the present.

Maykrs were, in many ways, ridiculously alien compared to humans, but not even this weird stunted behavior was normal. Panic grips at the Slayer's heart and he steps forward. 

"What?" Slayer asks, suddenly concerned, his fists closing, eyes darting and body sharpening as he prepares to fight. "What's wrong?" 

It is a few long moments before Samur can even get close to responding. The metal of his body shines with an unseen light as his fingers twitch and his tentacles thrash from under his robes. Slayer makes a brave decision and touches the maykr, hoping to calm the creature and surprised to find his breath syncing with the maykr's own. He let's go, startled, but the contact seems to be enough to Samur to come to. He focuses on Slayer, his four eyes wide and shining. 

"I know what to do." Samur's breathing continues to come fast, and suddenly his clawed hands are shakily pulling his hood back up. "I-- we-- Slayer, it can be done. I can give you what you seek."

There's a stunned silence between them. Slayer's blue eyes narrow as he looks skeptically at the maykr. Then Samur reaches out for him, a strong metallic grip on his shoulders. 

"Slayer, I am -- I have seen -- please,  _ do you trust me?"  _

There is a fraught energy about Samur, an individual usually so composed he could be emotional opposite to Slayer's perpetual energy and intensity. The marine searches Samur's glowing eyes, seeing the thinly veiled terror there, and remembers his earlier words:  _ I don't have much time. _

Right now, none of them did. And the clock was still ticking.

Slayer nods. "Yes. I do," he responds. "Tell me, what needs to be done?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruh sorry this took longer than expected; I kept picking at it little by little every day, in between work, while I worked on perfecting these two scenes. Also WOW almost 75 kudos in a week? I was not expecting that at all. Cheers to more chapters!

**Author's Note:**

> /is fully prepared and accepting of the fact that nobody will probably read this, and therefore, i'm writing only to appease myself and all the ideas bouncing around my brain. DAMN YOU ID SOFTWARE. DAMN YOU.
> 
> I do have more chapters. Legit. I started chapter 2 before even writing this. Helped me get through it. Beginnings are hard anyway ilu all, byeee


End file.
